


Lion's feet

by unicarna



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Polis, mentions of clarke/niylah, mild spoilers for 3x03 clexa sneak peek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicarna/pseuds/unicarna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mini fic inspired by the 3x03 sneak peek. Clarke is very angry, thank you very much, and really doesn't want to bathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lion's feet

Clarke seethes and curses and washes up in the basin instead of using the bathtub. It stands there on golden lion’s feet, probably the most luxurious Polis has to offer, beckoning for her to get in. But she stubbornly passes it every day, making a point of ignoring it as if the cold porcelain is flesh and blood and warpaint.

She stares out the window for hours, and yes, she is in awe, a feeling she thought she had left behind with her heart somewhere in Mount Weather. She can see the ocean and she aches to taste its salty breeze on her tongue. Would salt water have burned Lexa more had she spat it at her? She shakes her head and stares at herself in the mirror and wonders who the wild girl is that stares back. She undresses and looks at the claw marks on her shoulder, pokes at them and enjoys the stinging.

She sleeps a whole night without waking up. She eats out of necessity but it quickly becomes another bathtub; the food is rich in flavour and texture, more colourful and hearthy than in Mount Weather.

 _Mount Weather_.

She tosses and turns and screams during a night much more reminiscent of the past months. She nods at the servants and guards and denies the Commander’s request to meet. She is surprised when they do not push further.

On the fifth day she wakes up to find the bathtub filled with hot water. A faint herbal smell hangs in the air and when she moves closer - just to look - she sees a small assortment of soaps resting on the edge. She sits on the edge and watches the scented oil swirl in the water, until it cools.

Clarke tries very hard not to think so of course she does, endless, pointless thoughts that she has thought a thousand times. She wishes she could cry.

She lies in the comfortable bed that she couldn’t deny herself and remembers Niylah’s soft hands on her back and chest, her small smile, and her mouth between Clarke’s legs. She closes her eyes and drifts away to that moment and it’s absolute bliss. The minutes of existing in the present and being no one.

Her hands wander under her shirt, inside her pants, wondering if this is her recipe for peace. And for a few blessed moments it feels like it is, as she softens and folds and relaxes into the rising tension. Her breaths are loud in the silence that she is not used to anymore. She shudders and sighs and needs. But in the final breath, on the brink, soft green eyes swim before her eyes and she cries out in frustration and comes against frantic fingers.

“Fuck”, she says to the air that still smells of herbs. She grits her teeth and angrily wipes her hand on the sheets.

Clarke seethes and curses and washes up in the basin instead of using the bathtub.


End file.
